


Skin Deep

by tsukinofaerii



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Outtakes, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Stiles' failed escape, Deucalion makes him an offer with all the weight of an alpha behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during part three of [Bars of Bone and Fragile Humanity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/826761). Specifically, it takes place after Stiles is bitten but before he is driven feral. You should likely read that for full context. 
> 
> Partial blame for this goes to Queerly It Is and Nightrevelations. Possibly there are other guilty parties; Twitter is a vast and dirty place.

No one came for him. No one fed him, gave him a moment of light or a touch. Stiles lost track of the time, falling into something that wasn't awake but wasn't really asleep, either. 

Being alone was the worst part. Stiles' skin itched, and his heart was too loud and there were too many noises. When Erica and Boyd had been in the cage with him, he'd thought the quiet would drive him crazy, had wondered how they'd gone so long without cracking. He'd talked as much out of habit as to keep himself from going insane in the silence. 

But it wasn't quiet, not at all. Someone was humming the Mission Impossible theme, clanking around in what sounded like a tool shed, maybe a kitchen, claws clicking on metal. Two more people were fighting, sparring, snarling curses at each other in between the _thud_ of blows. Overhead, far, far overhead there was a grinding, grumbling noise, a shovel in dirt, the drag of something heavy. The touch of the air when he moved, the bite of scent from the buckets, a smear of oatmeal, rats and soap and a thousand textures he'd never noticed until they were suddenly the center of his world. 

And it kept getting worse, more sounds, more clicks and twists and breaths and heartbeats until he thought buried his head in his arms to try and block them out.

"Shhh." A clawed hand touched the nape of Stiles' neck, thumb pressing into the base of his skull. "Breathe. Relax."

Stiles took a shaky breath, eyes clenched shut. Slowly, his body unwound, pulling himself apart from the knot he'd curled himself into. Under the pungent odor of the slop buckets, it was hard to pick out details, but he thought he smelled leather and motor oil, a hint of aftershave and something heavier. Muskier. Strong.

The hand on his neck stroked gently, easing tense muscles. Claws scratched lightly, a hint of pain that was gone a second later. "I thought it might take you hard," Deucalion murmured, voice low and soothing. "Focus on my voice. That's it. In and out; just breathe. There's a lad. Come with me, now."

Somewhere Stiles knew he should fight—dig in his heels, claws, bite, anything. This was the enemy, the man who would have let him die. But he found himself letting Deucalion take his hand and lead him forward. Light speared through his eyelids like knives, but Deucalion pressed a hand to his forehead and it just... vanished. The fresher air had so much information. He could smell where he, Boyd and Erica had passed through, a mix of unwashed body and something sharp and rich. Someone was cooking chicken far away, the scent just a hint on the breeze. 

And Deucalion. In the middle of the jigsaw puzzle of odors, he was a rock of certainty. Blood, leather, power, scents that made Stiles want to curl in on himself, to whine and bare his throat and beg so the alpha would protect him, take care of him and lead him. It twisted his stomach and wrenched his heart so hard that he stumbled, falling to his knees to dry heave. Deucalion let him, then gently pulled him up to his feet and kept leading. 

They went around bends and twists, through doors, until finally Stiles was sat down onto something soft that smelled of feathers and chemical cleaners. 

"Open your eyes."

He opened them. The world had red tint for a moment, but it faded away after a few seconds. 

Deucalion squatted in front of Stiles, watching like he was the newest exhibit in a museum. "Better?"

After a second of thought, Stiles nodded. His heart was still loud, panicky; it knew something was wrong, even when the rest of him was numb. Numb was still better than the overload of before. Blinking slowly, he looked around. 

He'd been led to some sort of bedroom, and was currently sitting on a simple queen-sized mattress. It was plain, the furniture heavy duty and the walls scarred brick, but it was a _bedroom_ , with a bed and a dresser and a heavy metal door. The lamps were dim, tiny bulbs that had been heavily shaded. Once he focused, he realized he couldn't hear anything outside the room. The other heartbeats were gone, down to two. 

"It's—" Stiles licked his lips. They were dry, crusty like he'd cracked them. "It's sound-proofed." 

Deucalion smiled. "Yes, exactly. I thought it might be easier for you. You seemed to have difficulty focusing."

"Why should you care?" Talking helped. Turning his thoughts into words gave him a barrier, a tool. It wasn't much, but Stiles would take anything. "You're going to kill me anyway." 

The smile deepened. "So quick to assume." Deucalion's hand came up to rest on Stiles' knee, the fingertips reaching between a hole worn through his pajama bottoms to just barely graze against skin. Red peeked through the brown of his eyes, hinting at power. "I told you. We could always use a stubborn little beta around."

Stiles went stiff. "No. I won't— I'm not going to be like _you_. "His muscles trembled with the need to move, to run, to escape, but he _couldn't_. There was a weight to the touch, pressure that was more than physical. He needed to run. He _wanted_ to stay.

"Of course you won't." Inch by slow, aching inch, Deucalion ran his fingers up Stiles' inner thigh. He tilted his head, nose tucking under Stiles' chin. Trembling, Stiles lifted his chin, let Deucalion's teeth scrape his throat. Slowly, he rose out of his crouch, pushing Stiles back onto the bed. His lips and teeth scraped a line down to Stiles' collarbone, his chest. "You're going to be our _pet_." 

"Don't," Stiles whispered, choking on the word. He didn't dare look down. 

Stubble scraped over Stiles' lower stomach, Deucalion's head turning so his cheek rested just under Stiles' bellybutton. "No?" he asked, soft and conversational, like his thumbs weren't burning a line along Stiles' hipbone, his breath wasn't tickling the scattering of body hair Stiles had been so damned proud to finally grow. "Alright, then."

He didn't move. Deucalion just stayed there, breathing, cheek heavy and warm, prickly with facial hair. Every shift of weight became more pronounced, important. His breath. His heartbeat. The taste of musk on the air, salt-sweet and promising sex and belonging and comfort and—

Stiles choked on his thoughts and twisted his head back so he wouldn't accidentally look down, willing Deucalion to get up and go.To throw him out, back to the cage. To hit him. _Anything_.

A touch.

The top of his foot, just a brush of cloth on skin, a scrape of denim. Stiles' body jerked, dick twitching. Somehow it'd gotten hard when he wasn't paying attention, and Stiles couldn't keep from rolling his hips up against Deucalion's chest. The soft, soft cotton of his pants felt too tight, confining, each thread standing in stark relief against his skin. 

Deucalion huffed a laugh, his breath warm and smelling of mint. "I'm sorry," he said, idly dragging his cheek across Stiles' stomach, leaving a burn behind that didn't fade right away. "Did you want something?" 

Locking his jaw, Stiles craned his head even more.

"Relax, Stiles. "Warm, gentle hands ran up Stiles' shins, rubbing under his pants. The sensation tingled all the way up his legs, across his back, playing on his skin. Promising. It could be _so easy_... "I'm trying to help."

"Fuck you," Stiles bit out between clenched teeth. 

Another laugh, low and rough, fit to set Stiles' skin tingling. "Maybe if you're good."

The touches stayed low, technically in safe, neutral places, but he couldn't ignore them. There was nothing else to focus on, and every sense was razor sharp. Whether from the bite or from having been alone in the dark for God knew how long, it was impossible to tell. In spite of himself, his hands unclenched, his muscles relaxed. The world beyond the closed door seemed a lifetime away. There were people and pack and he couldn't let them down, wouldn't give in, but it was so tempting...

Soft lips nuzzled a kiss to his ribs. "Let me take care of you," Deucalion murmured, right against Stiles' skin. Claws hooked on the waistband of his ratty pajama pants, pulling them down with a rasp of elastic over sweat- and dirty-sticky skin. Deucalion ran his hands down Stiles' thighs and shins, dragging his pants off the rest of the way.

Stiles' fingers dug into the mattress as the elastic was carefully lifted over his dick, which was hard as a rock, head already smeared with precome. With a rip, his claws sliced through the padding, burying in it like it was nothing.

He didn't fight when Deucalion's hands glided up his body, when the bed dipped under the weight of a knee. Stubble scraped up his neck, across his jaw. When Deucalion kissed him, a low, desperate whine slipped free from between his fangs. 

Deucalion shushed him softly, claws scraping up Stiles' flanks. The flat of his palm brushed over the head of Stiles' dick, claws biting into the skin of his hip, just a prick of pain, a promising tease. 

Stiles' breath hitched in an aborted sob. His lips parted, letting the kiss go deeper. It felt _good_ , and _God_ he was tired. Tired of being alone, in his head and in his skin. Comfort had a scent, wrapping him up and fogging his head. So easy, _so fucking easy, just let go_...

His hands slipped up Deucalion's back, claws sinking into his shirt. It ripped like tissue paper, parting without a struggle. Stiles finished shredding it, enraptured by the feel of the fabric tearing, how little effort it was. Bits of blue cotton drifted to the floor. 

"There we go," Deucalion murmured, nipping the hinge of Stiles' jaw. His palm dragged slowly up Stiles' shaft, up to the tip and then back down to cradle his balls. Stiles' chest jerked in a hiccup, a protest lodged in his throat, sour on his tongue. "Much better."

He let himself be drawn out, be spread out and touched like something delicate, something close to breaking. Every slow drag of skin, soft breath and the rising heat made him feel like he was going to fall apart. His heart beat loud and unsteady, skipping like it was playing hopscotch. His face felt odd, tight, and he thought it had probably changed. Certainly his fingers had, claws ripping lines across Deucalion's shoulders, the back of his neck, in the mattress when Stiles caught himself and shifted his grip. 

Deucalion's hands stayed gentle, always pressing for more but never _forcing_. When his fingers slid down between Stiles' ass cheeks and he jerked away, Deucalion went back to stroking up his legs, behind his balls. His tongue rasped down Stiles' chest, fangs burning lines across his skin that stayed just this side of bleeding. Then he'd move back down, murmuring reassurances, promises, and it was just too hard to keep saying no, to keep pulling away. 

It would have been easier if Deucalion had forced it. Adrenalin, fear, anger—those Stiles thought he could handle. Could fight. Not this slow breakdown. 

The first finger wasn't too bad. Saliva-slick, bigger than the fingers Stiles had occasionally tried, but not too bad. He let out a whimper, claws digging in, twisting free a clump of foam. 

"You're doing well," Deucalion murmured, kissing the fold of thigh and hip. His finger worked slowly, with the same finesse as everything else he'd done. Something pulled, deep in Stiles' stomach, demanding he give in, let himself be taken care of. "Look at me." 

God help him, he did. Deucalion knelt between his spread thighs, watching him intently with eyes that had gone bloody red. A smile spread across his face, deepening the lines there. Still holding Stiles' gaze, he licked a long line up the shaft of Stiles' dick, wrapping his lips around the head and suckling. Then he lowered his head back down, jaw stretching and—

"Oh my God," Stiles choked, head dropping back to the mattress as his hips rose up. Deucalion's throat worked around his dick, a rolling, swallowing sort of motion that scrambled Stiles' brain. The flat of his tongue cradled Stiles' dick, working it, sucking as he pulled away, bobbling. Heat wrapped around him, strangling. 

Blood thundered in Stiles' ears, loud, but not loud enough to block the sound of a cap being popped. Chemical-slick scented the air, sharp like a coming blizzard. The second finger slid in smoother, cold with lube. Stiles rocked down into it, then up into Deucalion's mouth, torn between the two. Pressure built, clawing him apart from the inside. He wanted—he _needed_ —

Then the fingers were gone, the mouth was gone. Stiles' eyes flew open, a gasped _no_ wrenched from his throat. But Deucalion's hand pressed him down, kept him pinned with only a little effort. 

It was too exposing, lying spread out and naked, feeling someone else's body heat just outside of touching range. A shiver ran down Stiles, prickling his skin. "Please." 

"Soon," Deucalion soothed, gentle voice at sharp odds with the snap of a button being undone, the scrape of a zipper. A kiss was pressed just under his ribs, even as Deucalion pushed his knees up. The blunt head of his dick nudged against Stiles' hole, not pushing, not anything. "Say yes."

 _Oh God._ "No," Stiles said, voice catching on the vowel. " _No_." 

Claws prickled his thighs. They didn't punch through, but the promise was there. Deucalion dragged his cheek up Stiles' chest, pausing to touch kisses here, over his heart, there on his collarbone. His dick didn't move at all, just _there_ , impossible to ignore. 

" _No_ ," Stiles said again, unprompted. 

Deucalion didn't reply. He was too busy, biting marks into Stiles' neck. His teeth worried at Stiles' skin, flat as a human's, almost tender. The tug came again, laden with urgency, _need_. To give in, to bare his throat and belly and just let the alpha be _his_.

Tears burned a line down Stiles' temples. He couldn't find the breath to say it again, lips forming the word soundlessly. 

A kiss pressed to the hinge of his jaw. "Stiles," Deucalion whispered. 

He turned his head, eyes tight closed. Deucalion's lips brushed over his, teasing passes that turned firmer with each touch until Stiles found his own lips parting, a needy whine slipping free. His thoughts turned to so much white noise as Deucalion's tongue toyed with his, open-mouthed and messy and so sweet that he wondered if werewolves could hear a heart breaking. 

Somewhere in the kiss, Stiles heard himself say, " _Yes_."

Blunt pressure turned into a slick, tight burn. The stretch of Deucalion's dick was so much more than his fingers, a sharp pain that blurred the lines into pleasure. Stiles' back arched, but spread open as he was there was no way to rock down, to force it to go faster. More mattress foam shredded under his claws. By the time Deucalion was flush against him, he thought he'd go out of his mind.

Then he moved just a little. Sparks flared as Deucalion brushed over Stiles' prostate, sharp, harsh pleasure like lightning under his skin. "Oh my—yes— _yes_ —" he gasped, shoulders rolling back to bare his throat more. Deucalion took the offering, teeth latching on as he found his pace. The bite arched through him, connecting a bright line between throat and groin. It left Stiles frozen, helpless as the alpha worked him over in slow, languid movements, soft little thrusts that never seemed to miss that spot. Even his dick bobbing ignored between them took second place. 

He felt it when Deucalion started to lose it. The flat teeth at his throat turned sharp, slicing, claws punching through skin. _Painblisssurrendersogood_ sang through Stiles veins. Copper-salt filled the air, blood rolling down to stain the already ruined bed. Lazy thrusts sped, turning harsh. 

Stiles rode it out, fumbling to press the flat of his hand to his leaking dick. Two rubs did him in. A wordless cry wrenched from him, almost a howl as he came, jizz splattering across his stomach and chest. 

Deucalion grunted, thrusts stuttering, turning sharp and shallow. He came with a low, rough groan that skidded over Stiles' nerves like sandpaper. 

There was nothing to do but lie there, panting, as Deucalion slowly pulled out. Come immediately slipped free, burning-hot on Stiles' hole before the air cooled it as it slipped down his thighs. Deucalion nuzzled a kiss to Stiles' shoulder, tongue sliding over the marks he'd left.

"Good boy." Soft, sleepy satisfaction played in his voice. "Show me your throat." 

Stiles stomach churned. His chin started to lift again before he caught it and tucked it down. "No."

"No?" The same pull twisted in him, promising, seductive. _Let him,_ it said. _Alpha, he's your alpha, let him be your alpha._

" _No_." Stiles bit the word out, making it hard. It was as much directed inward as at Deucalion. _I have a pack—I have Scott and Boyd and Erica and I won't I won't—_

"Stiles." Human fingertips ran up his ribs, rubbing circles. "Show me. Your throat." 

_Yes. Claws and running and pack so much better strong angry so much to fight let him be alpha say yes say yes—_

" _No_!" Snarling, Stiles lunged. He didn't see Deucalion move before he was being hurled top over teakettle. The ground slammed into him, bones crunching, rough concrete burning away a layer of skin. Twisting, he pulled his legs under him to leap again. A steel-toed boot caught him under the jaw, sending him sprawling. Then it settled on his knee, grinding in as Deucalion shifted his weight onto it. Stiles screamed as something cracked and popped, pain lancing up through his leg.

Deucalion stood over him, dick still swinging free, eyes glowing in the dim light. "Last chance," he offered, twisting his heel. "Be mine, or be Kali's. Believe me when I say, you'd rather be mine." 

Baring his teeth through the tears, Stiles snarled. 

Something almost like pity crossed Deucalion's eyes. "A shame. We could have had fun together." 

The weight on his knee vanished. Stiles pulled it in, pressing his fingers to it, feeling the cracks in the joint. The pain was like nothing else he'd ever felt, a constant, low throb even after the healing started. He stretched it, feeling things click out of place, a burn where it wasn't healing clean.

The door opened and closed, lock sliding into place. He was alone again. 

And Kali was coming.


End file.
